


of popcorn and kisses

by Evanaissante



Series: postcards & hummingbirds [8]
Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: First Dates, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2019-10-19
Packaged: 2020-12-24 07:34:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21095777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evanaissante/pseuds/Evanaissante
Summary: “I guess it will just be you, me, Staniel and Eddie.” Richard says, kicking a few cans, “If Mrs K doesn’t do a Rapunzel and lock him in his room again. He got in trouble recently with Bill and she totally flipped.”“What kind of trouble?” Boris can imagine Krolic getting in some sort of mayhem, but William? He doesn’t seem like a big rulebreaker from where he’s standing.“I don’t even know,” Richard laughed, eyes fond, “Since he threw all his meds out, Eds’ been going apeshit on the regular and Bill follows because he’s a dumbass. Losers stick together or whatever.” His expression turns sour and Boris doesn’t need to ask. “Anyway, let’s hit the road, Vladislav.”-Richie takes his brother, his crush and his brother's crush to the theatre, it doesn't exactly go as planned.





	1. phone calls and pocket money

**Author's Note:**

  * For [porcia_catonis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/porcia_catonis/gifts), [SpicyWolfsbane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpicyWolfsbane/gifts), [Beatles_and_Bellarke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beatles_and_Bellarke/gifts).

> guess who is back, back again, with an ooc storis fic? your favourite belgian nightmare! i'm so sorry this took so long to write and that it's still kinda bad...
> 
> as always, this is for my brazilian tiny satan, my american goldfinch and my bowl-cut fanatic. love you all so much.

_ August 1983 _

Boris hears Richard’s voice before he sees him, his legs thrown on the side of the Tozier’s floral sofa while he twists and turns the phone’s cable between two fingers, empty cans of soda pilling near his feet. His curls, the same Boris ignores on his own forehead, falling on the rim of his glasses as he laughs and shakes his head. It’s a strange vision, this carbon copy yourself talking and moving in ways that don’t look familiar for your limbs. The way Richard holds himself, Boris couldn’t explain it, but it becomes obvious that they only share a face and even that is debatable.

“Yeah, they say there’s like, tons of blood in this one, dude,” Richard says and it shouldn’t make Boris smile, but he’s always amused by how his brother,  _ and isn’t that a strange thing too _ , speaks. Maybe it seems so entertaining to him because their tones might be similar but the way Richard pauses between each word is different, he’s not thinking about the next word, he’s just taking the time to let his audience enjoy his performance, even when he’s talking on the phone. It’s different when he’s with Krolik too, that small quick boy who Boris tried to call by his full name once before he started jumping up and down, cheeks red, spouting insults and Boris, amazed, had opted for a nickname. Richard always speaks faster when Krolik comes around like he’s afraid they won’t have enough time, never enough time to share all they have to say.

“It’s gonna be  _ awesome _ , my mom gave me enough money to get popcorn and ice cream with Eddie afterwards,” Richard continues and Boris notices how his eyes shine a little brighter behind the thick lenses of his glasses, “You know how Mrs K gets when he asks for stuff, so of course I’m paying, Big Bill.”

The other voice,  _ Big Bill _ , replies something short and Boris can see how Richard’s smile freezes on his face. He sits up, his feet finally touching the ground and his hands automatically go to his glasses. He’s nervous, Boris knows him enough to recognise it, but he’s getting angry too and that’s something Boris has not seen often.

His brother, he’s not an angry one, he doesn’t rage against the world like some of his friends, be it  _ Krolik  _ or even  _ Zirka _ , whose intensity could only be matched by the shade of her hair. Richard doesn’t yell, he doesn’t throw things, his anger is silent but quick, like a snake in the grass that waits the adequate moment to bite. It’s a vicious thing and Boris hopes it is never directed at him. He can take a punch or a kick to the stomach, he understands that type of anger, but Richard’s laconic way to attack when he’s finally at his limits, the way he finds the right word to cut away at someone’s heart, Boris doesn’t know how to approach that. You can’t protect your ribs with your arms against that. He can angle his body so a cane doesn’t hit him in the sternum, but he doesn’t know how to prepare himself for this type of aphonic hatred, especially not when it comes from someone like Richard.

He doesn’t want to explain why, so he won’t, not even to himself.

“Yeah he’s gonna be there,” Richard says now, far more serious than he was just a few seconds ago, “Well, Billiam, it’s pretty obvious, right?” Boris supposes it isn’t because he can hear stuttering from where he stands, ‘He’s my  _ brother _ .”

_ Oh _ .

Boris doesn’t know how to protect himself against that either.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me right now,” Richard continues, but it isn’t disbelief that’s inhabiting his voice, it’s exasperation, and just a touch of outrage. “You just told me you wanted to go!”

There’s some tumult coming from the other side of the line, Boris can at least hear that, it’s also clear on Richard’s face that whatever William’s replying, it’s not convincing. 

“Yeah, well fuck you too, Bill.” Boris almost feels like flinching from the vitriol in his brother’s tone, “This so fucking shitty, man. You don’t like him? That’s fine, shitty but fine, but you can’t just cancel shit like this and keep the others with you like some sort of  _ dictator  _ or whatever. I don’t understand why you can’t just be happy for-” He stops himself, his entire body becoming still, even the tremors he carries in his legs like jolts of anxious electricity. “Just, don’t come, fine. But don’t call either, okay? I don’t wanna talk about this right now.”

William must be protesting but Richard hangs up anyway, the corner of the phone catches the table before it lands home and the sound of it resonates in the living room, like the gavel at the end of a court case, like an accusation. Richard’s breath is heavy and loud and Boris doesn’t know if he should manifest himself or wait. He doesn’t know what a brother should do, he’s still not used to this space between them, this silent acceptance that they barely know each other but they care enough to try. Boris is not used at all to this, he doesn’t know if he ever will be.

“You can come out of the shadow, you weirdo,” Richard’s head is still in his hands, he’s thrown his glasses to the side, they’re dangling dangerously from the armrest. “You’re standing there like a wannabe Count Chocula.”

Boris only gets the reference because he remembers ripping open boxes of cereals to put the filled plastic bag in the lining of his jacket back in Vegas. Kent had a penchant for Apple Jacks for some inexplicable reason. The memory almost makes him smile, almost. “Not a vampire,” Boris says, moving closer and grabbing the pair of glasses to settle them soundly on the coffee table. If Richard breaks them he’ll be useless for weeks. “William is not coming?” He already knows the answer but there’s a sense of comfort in getting a reply he expects.

Richard snorts, a little defeated but less so than a few seconds ago, “I’ll never understand why you call us all by our names like that.”

“I don’t call Krolic by name,” Boris replies a smile itching his lips, “Or  _ Kolibri _ .”

“Oh yeah, dear  _ Kolibri _ ,” Richard puts a hand to his heart dramatically, like Boris has seen actresses in Margaret’s movie do, sometimes they even throw their heads on one side and moan, but Richard is only going for a half-assed adaptation, it seems. “What will Babooshka ever do, without his darling  _ Kolibri _ .”

“Name is Sputnik,” Boris says, grabbing one of the empty cans of Coca-Cola he noticed earlier and aiming it at his brother’s head, “Get it right.”

Without his glasses, Richard’s head makes a perfectly good target, when the can bounces back on his head, he laughs and swats it, a little too late. “Fuck off,” His happiness is interrupted shortly when his eyes, a little dazed and unseeing, fall on the phone gain. “Bill doesn’t want to come because you’ll be here, the dickhead.” He looks up and he’s biting his bottom lip aggressively, “But you heard all of that.”

Boris only nods, he doesn’t really have anything to say to that. If William doesn’t want to see him, that’s not really his problem. He doesn’t like leaders, never had, never will and Boris doesn’t see the point in fighting, especially when his opponent is a friend of Richard and, as it turns out, pretty much every person Boris has found himself liking in Derry. 

“Bev’s not coming either,” Richard continues, huffing like a child, blowing his hair out of his face with exasperation. “She’s visiting her grandma who’s got like, boob cancer, which sucks already, but that means Haystack’s not coming either. He’s probably gonna listen to his sad playlist while writing postcard poems,” The way Richard rolls his eyes starts a spark of shame at the pit of Boris’ stomach, nothing he can’t suffocate with some soda or a cigarette, but he still feels strangely contrite. Postcard poems aren’t so bad now, right?

“What about Michael?” He asks, wanting to hide the slight hesitation Richard investigated. 

Richard sighs, “Nah, not coming either. Go figures.”

“Understandable,” Boris shrugs, but his brother doesn’t seem to find it all so obvious.” William’s not coming, Michael won’t go, understandable.”

“There’s absolutely nothing  _ understandable  _ with all of what you just said.”

Boris kicks his brother’s feet off the coffee table, settling next to him. He wonders how they must look next to each other, Richard and his colourful palm tree shirts that would look long on anyone else but barely cover his frame and Boris himself, now always wrapped in the sweaters the Toziers buy for him at Wallmart because Maine’s weather is always and forever pure shit. They make an odd pair, but Boris likes to believe they match in the strangest way.

“The way William and Michael act, bit like you and  _ Krolic _ , you know?”

Richard’s eyes get awfully wide, just like when he’s wearing his glasses, “No, I  _ don’t  _ know, Boris.”

The way his shoulders tense up tell Boris that this is one of the things they don’t talk about, he can mention how he used to taste Kent’s lips after they’d drank all of Xandra’s Irish cream, he can talk about how Kolibri’s hand feels warm in his and how much he loves the colour of his reddening cheeks, but this flutter in his brother’s heart when Krolic punches his arm fondly or tell him to shut up, those are unspeakable things. He gets it, in a way, but not in others. It’s a weird concept to understand and an even weirder one to accept.

The silence between them gets heavy before Richard just exhales, searching blindly for his glasses before Boris thrusts them in his open hand and when they look back at each other, Richard finally seeing him as he is and not in a blurry moving form, they smile. Boris supposes that’s the end of that conversation and that’s fine by him.

“I guess it will just be you, me, Staniel and Eddie.” Richard says, kicking a few cans, “If Mrs K doesn’t do a Rapunzel and lock him in his room again. He got in trouble recently with Bill and she totally flipped.”

“What kind of trouble?” Boris can imagine Krolic getting in some sort of mayhem, but William? He doesn’t seem like a big rulebreaker from where he’s standing. 

“I don’t even know,” Richard laughed, eyes fond, “Since he threw all his meds out, Eds’ been going apeshit on the regular and Bill follows because he’s a dumbass.  _ Losers stick together  _ or whatever.” His expression turns sour and Boris doesn’t need to ask. “Anyway, let’s hit the road, Vladislav.”

“You give me nickname, then change it.” Boris says as he pushes his brother through the door, “Americans are all the same, undecided assholes.”

“Technically, I’m borscht too, a pure beet soup.”

“Shut up and walk, you’re barely cabbage.”

“That’s the strangest insult anyone as ever told me, and I’ve been compared to literal dumpsters.”

“Boys?” A voice calls behind them, it’s Margaret, Boris knows it before he turns around but he’s not sure he wants to face her. She has always been kind to him, Wentworth too, but he can’t help it. Boris guesses he will always carry this with him, this thing he refuses to call fear but that tastes very much like it and that breaks his skin like the weight of a cane or, and that’s the irrational threat that still looms over his head, of a pipe wrench. 

Richard doesn’t carry this, lucky bastard, which means that he also doesn’t noticeably freeze when his mother calls him, he just turns around, a new accent on the tip of his tongue “Maggie, what can I do to help you on this fine Summer day?”

Margaret almost rolled her eyes but stopped herself before she could, Boris guesses that this was the usual automatic response to Richard’s…  _ Richardness _ . “Where are you boys going? To the theatre?”

Richard nods, a large smile on his lips and Margaret, her eyes shining so brightly that Boris had a hard time looking away, started digging into the pocket of her jeans. She was a beautiful woman, Margaret Tozier, with her dark red curls and her hazel eyes rimmed with mascara. She had freckles on the bridge of her nose and on her hands and neck as if she’d been kissed by the sun all over and by the actual sun, not by a bottle of fake spray tan while she lounged on a plastic folding chair. Margaret didn’t have much jewellery either, no golden hoops and loud bracelets dangling from her wrists, just her wedding ring, discrete yet blinding on her finger. She didn’t look like any woman Boris had ever seen, not like Xandra, but not like his mother either, or at least, not like the singing, pale and dark memory of her. But maybe that wasn’t a good comparing point, it was all too foggy, too old and the longer he stared at Margaret, the more the fragile image of his mother burned in his mind. The sun, the moon, one or the other, never the two together.

“Here,” Margaret says, extending a hand where laid a few crinkled dollars in his direction. When he didn’t pick them up, his eyes going back and forth between the money and her face, she smiled a little more as if she was trying to gain the trust of a wounded animal. It would have made Boris laugh if he hadn’t believed it in a way. “Richie has enough money for both of your tickets and whatever he wants to buy with the rest, but I want you to get something for yourself, okay? Maybe some popcorn, or a soda? Just get whatever you want.”

Boris doesn’t need to trust her to know she means it, and maybe that’s what’s so scary, that she means it. She wants him to take her money, dollar bills she’s kept in her pocket, next to her car keys or a packet of gum, to distribute them to her son when he needs an allowance and now, she’s giving it all to him. She’s giving him her son’s money and saying to buy popcorn with it and Boris’ heart, the treacherous thing, beats a little harder as he picks it up and puts it in his own pockets. 

“Okay,” He says, slowly, the word almost unknown to his lips, like he lost all basic knowledge of English. “I will.”

Margaret’s smile looks like Richard’s, genuine and slightly too toothy, Boris can’t help but feel the own corner of his lips arch upward. His brother claps his back quickly, sending just a spike of pain down his spine, not really hurting but enough to make him want to punch his arm, he’ll wait when they’re outside. “Gotta go, mom,” Richard kisses into her cheek, something Boris hasn’t seen him do often and he’s left, standing in front of Margaret, not knowing what to do. He settles on shaking her hand, firm but not crushing, he hopes she knows he’s saying thank you. 

Her eyes widen and he uses her confusion to flee, he feels the back of his neck heat up and he doesn’t particularly want to turn red in front of her. “Bye.” He almost barks as he closes the door behind him, slowly enough to hear her muffled goodbyes and his name, whispered almost tenderly.

When he exits the house, he can hardly breathe.


	2. neon lights and bike rides

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what do you mean it's been a month since i've updated this fic, shhh, just enjoy the popcorn gays

The theatre’s signs are shining neon lights on Richard’s lenses, the mix of purple and green dancing on the glass, like genetically modified autumn leaves blowing in the wind, or whatever. Boris isn’t that good at metaphors, especially in English, all he knows is that it looks kind of cool and that Richard seems the most himself like this, under the spotlight, with _ Krolic _babbling quickly next to him. His smile is bright, maybe just as bright as the signs, and Boris half wonders if it’s all just an act. He’s seen how dark his brother looked while they drove, he’s seen how his hands clenched on the steering wheel and how he covered it all when Kolibri joined them in the car. 

Boris silently asks himself if all the boys with glasses he meets will be secrets he doesn’t know how to crack, Rubik cubes left unattended, he’s tired of breaking his teeth on those cross-eyed mysteries.

“I’m just telling you that if there’s a scene where she takes out her intravenous by herself, I’m leaving,” Krolic says, his hands flailing around him like the wings of a, particularly hyperactive butterfly. Boris snorts, helplessly amused. 

“Shut up, Eddie, you say that every time.” Kolibri rolls his eyes, he does it so much when he’s near these two that Boris is afraid one day he’ll get stuck like this. And it would be such a shame if Boris couldn’t stare into them before leaving a quick and thrilling kiss on those pouting lips anymore. He doesn’t say that out loud, he can’t, but he licks the corner of his own mouth where he’s biting the straw of his red Slurpee and Kolibri, always observant, turns back, pink and breathing heavily. When Boris grins, he gets punched in the hip, but that’s okay, he deserved it.

“There’s not gonna be a hospital scene, Eds,” Richard replies, cutting Edward’s automatic complaint about his nickname by stuffing his open mouth with a handful of popcorn. “They’re getting murdered in the desert, not getting flu shots.”

Krolic almost bites Richard’s sticky fingers, fuming with anger, “Don’t stick your hand in my mouth like that! It’s disgusting! Do you know how many different germs are on people fingers? And don’t call me Eds!”

Boris feels the need to roll his eyes too actually, this is a lot of screaming for a few sugary kennels, but he guesses everyone’s courting is different and it obviously works on his brother if his wide smile and smitten eyes say anything.

“Children,” Kolibri whispers with almost indulgent displeasure, he can act like he hates Richard and everything he stands for, but Boris knows that he’s not the only one who calls this lanky, gangly kid his brother. 

“Leave them,” He replies, taking a step forward in the line that formed itself in front of the screening room, “They will tire themselves and sleep, be good for us.” 

“If you think Eddie ever gets tired, you’ve got another thing coming.” Kolibri moves closer, the hand that wasn’t holding his soda brushing against Boris’. “He’s like those spring toys that never stop making noise.”

“_ Zabawka wiosenna _,” Boris nods, “Very annoying, yes, but also very cute.”

Kolibri eyes him up and down, “Don’t let Eddie hear you say that or we’re never gonna watch this movie.” He’s a little cold, a little tense and Boris feels himself smile in response.

“You are cute too, Kolibri, cute as, _ what do they say,_ a button? Or maybe a bit too tall for a button. Cute as a scissor.”

Kolibri chuckles, but he tries to hide it under a cough, it makes Boris smile wider. “That’s not a saying, and scissors? Not particularly cute.”

“Why are we talking about scissors?” Richard asks, letting himself fall on Boris, he’s just a few inches taller, but he uses it to his advantage on a daily basis. “We’re doing arts and crafts after this? Or maybe another Bar Mitzvah, I volunteer to cut the end of your dick, Stan the man.”

Boris elbows him in the ribs, a little harder than he planned to, but Richard can take it, Boris has seen him run into poles for bets and jump out of windows for no other reason than to satisfy his teenage boredom. "Not talking to you, _dupek_."

"Is that a word to say beautiful, smart and incredible? Because it sounds a bit short, but I'm sure that's all you would call your amazing brother."

"It means asshole," Edward intervenes, smirking.

Richard turns around, eyes wide and mouth agape, "Since when do you know ruskov?"

"That was Polish, I told you Boris taught me the basics."

"Basics," Boris snickers, "You wanted to know the insults."

Krolic shrugs, "Same difference."

"I can't believe it!" Richard cuts in, now leaning on Kolibri, who seems ready to throw him to the ground, "My Eddie Spaghetti and my own brother, teaming up against me. Such treason, such betrayal, I could have you hung for this."

"Oh, here we go again."

"You think you know someone, like the wheezy kid who steals all your pretzel pieces or the unknown brother who appeared less than a year ago and then bam!" He slaps Kolibri's back, making the other boy jump and hiss as he pushes Richard away, "They betray you like that. And for what? Polish lessons?" 

"Richie, I would betray for free," Kolibri says, shoving the boy, a few popcorns falling from his bucket, "Nobody has to even ask, I’ll do it right now."

"You say that, Urine Stain, but you and I go way back." Richard grins, plopping some good in his mouth and chewing loudly, like an inconsiderate dog, if dogs can be inconsiderate, Boris is not sure. "You’re like the brother I’ve-" He fakes shock pretty badly for someone who wants to become a showman, "Now wait a minute!" 

"Why didn't I see this coming?" Edward says, pinching the bridge of his nose like a headache is coming, Boris shares the feeling.

Kolibri snorts, "Because Richie’s not funny? Or original?"

"So this is really just bullying Richie night?" He turns towards Boris, a little pleading, a little mocking, a lot annoying. Brothers are supposed to be like that apparently, Boris doesn’t know, this is his first one. "Please, Babooshka, go Russian spy on their asses."

"Move," Boris replies, pushing his brother forward as the people in front of them finally enter the cinema. He would lie if he said he didn’t actually enjoy this, sharing popcorn he bought with money, bucket and all, not just sticky handfuls shoved into his coat pockets and Richard with his friends, the energy they share. He likes Krolic, likes how he tries to act like he doesn’t find it all amusing too, like he doesn’t enjoy the nicknames and the hugs. Boris likes how he swears and goes red and says it’s with anger when Boris knows he’s just blushing. The swears are real though and he guesses that some of the blushing can also be angry, like he said, everyone can do their courting differently. But he sees in this boy's eyes, huge and brown, that he adores Richard. There are hidden smiles and softly spoken _Rich _as his brother jokes and laughs, but it isn't really a role, not like the one he plays in front of Margaret, or in front of Boris sometimes, when they talk in hushed whispers at 4 AM and Boris talks about blood on his gums, the sound of his own ribs cracking. Richard plays a role then too, he says something funny, something kind as he pokes Boris' side but Boris can always see, behind his brother's fearless humour, the veiled terror, the horrible "_what if_" that overtakes him. Boris wonders if Richard ever dreams about the life he could have had, the name he could have kept and if he did, would he wake up screaming like Boris has learned not to?

They find four seats near the exit, Krolic insisted that they stayed there in case something happened. At first, Richard had tried to talk him out of it, Kolibri too, both complaining that they were too far away from the screen, but Krolic had started ranting about the probability of fires and smoke suffocating them and at one point, it was just a question of finding any seat that would not send Krolic into an instant cardiac arrest, screen be damned. Boris didn't really care, he was already just content to be here and sit, wherever that was, in all of the countries he had visited before, of all the places he had tried to call home, he hadn't gone to see many movies, especially not with friends. He'd watched movies, of course, black and white pictures that would either make him pensive after a drink or laugh hysterically after he let a pill melt under his tongue. He remembered nights pressed next to Kent, the TV screaming at them, the images blurring beyond his vision as he smoked and smiled against' Kent's lips. The memory sends a spike of shame in his stomach, not because of the liquor kisses and what had followed, but because of what he knows sits in the only bag of things he brought to Derry, he knows what he has wrapped in layers and layers of grey newspaper. He feels nausea building and he chokes it down with a few popcorns that he chews quickly, swallowing with a frown.

He sits down, fingers drumming on his thigh as he takes another fistful of food, the others are arguing about who should sit where, if the brothers should stay on one side or if they should be separated, Richard seems very attached to the idea of sitting next to Krolic, obviously, but the other boy keeps pointing that they can never watch movies together, because Richard moves and talks and apparently it's unbearable. Kolibri ends the argument by letting himself fall in the seat next to Boris, the one near to the wall, which means, whatever Krolic does, he'll be surrounded by curly haired assholes, the thought of it makes Boris smile.

"Fine, _fucking_, fine!" The boy exclaims as he sits down and crosses his arms in anger, he then turns to Richard, whose's smile is almost blinding, "But I swear to God, if you make voices during the murder scenes, I'll stab you."

"With what?" Richard chuckles, wrapping an arm around the smaller boy who tries to squirm out of it, "Your inhaler?"

"My dick!" Krolic almost shouts, turning red right away and from what Boris can see of his brother's face, he goes pink too. 

Kolibri snorts, breaking the silence that had started growing between them, "Well well, Eddie, tell us what you really think."

"Shut up," The other boy says, his face so red that he matches the seats, "You're just as bad as him."

The smirk that stretches on Kolibri's lips is a sight to behold, Boris always knew that there was something a little mean under the surface, _no_, not mean, but something sharper, an edge, something that explained why he and Richard lived inside each other's pocket and why they always seemed to know what was on the other's mind. Even the smallest, prettiest Birds do have claws after all.

"Don't insult me like this," Kolibri replies as Richard tries to high five him behind the chairs, "We're two very different brands of annoying."

"You admit that you're annoying though," Richard grins, "Is this Christmas? Or my birthday? Babooshka, were we actually born in August and you never told me?"

"Eat your popcorn," Boris says, shoving a few kennels in his brother's mouth, making the other boy emit a strange mix between a laugh and a scream, "_Your_," He wants to say voice, but he knows that it will only get him another mockery or another nickname, "Your mouth is loud." That's not really better, but it makes Kolibri hide a snicker behind a raised hand and that's enough for him.

Richard seems to want to interject, but the lights around them dim and Krolic grabs his arm fiercely, pressing two fingers on the back of his palm, locking it in place like h's trying to contain a wild animal, or a very annoying little dog. Richard closes his mouth immediately, Boris cannot see his eyes anymore in the darkness surrounding them but he guesses that behind the reflection of his glasses, those two eyes that look like his are fixed on Krolic's fingers, on the way they enclose his wrist and don't let go. Boris doesn't see the look in his brother's eyes, but he knows, he's familiar with it too. 

He wonders absently as the opening credits flash before his eyes, if he would recognise the feeling behind his brother's iris in the mirror, if he would catch a glimpse of himself in the ardour that burns there. Or if he's already lost that spark, if his devotion is now a cold force, a dead star, moving slowly and chipping away, but still there, always there. He doesn't want to think about Kent in this moment, not when his left ankle is brushing against the leg of a boy, such a pretty boy, who doesn't have to drink to press his lips against Boris', but Kent is under his skin today, just like he was last week and maybe he'll always be. It's not the same ache now, when he thinks about Kent, it's not a blistering pain that leaves him heaving in his bed, eyes dry but cheeks red, like he'd been running for hours. He never says the name, not even in his head, he doesn't think he could bear to hear it, even in his own voice and a part of him, one that craves to whisper sweetly the four letters, reminds him that he doesn't say Kolibri's name either, doesn't think it. He locks the thought away almost instantly, something scrapes in his throat as he tries to smother down this dose of awareness he's not ready to take yet and he fakes a cough, then quickly drowns it in his soda.

The movie starts on a shot of a road and a car, the road is long and barren, dust flying everywhere as the car, a shade of electric green that almost hurts Boris' eyes, speeds up. There are a few cactus here and there, but no trees, nothing and once again, Boris has to swallow the bitterness that settles on the back of his throat. He does it a little louder this time, the sound of his straw already aggravating him and he raises a hand to get rid of it and throw it on the ground when his hand brushes against skin, warm and soft, on his left.

Kolibri's hand, his fingers fluttering slightly against the red cushion of his seat.

It stops Boris' movement in mid-action and he feels stupid for a second, with his palm up, fingers stretched towards his cup, he lets it down just as quickly, letting it fall on the other hand below him, purposefully. But he hopes it doesn't translate as such, he hopes Kolibri doesn't catch on just yet. He knows, deep down, that Kolibri must know, and maybe want this too, but there's also the fear, the one that leaves him sticky with sweat in the darkest hours of the night, that this isn't something they should ever want out here, even in the obscurity of this room. If his father was here, the taste of cola would be replaced by the tang of copper he's started to associate with Kent's lips and he never wants that to touch Kolibri, he never wants this boy to join this memory of July rain kisses with the bitterness of blood. He guesses Richard must know some of this too, must be aware of the threat that below Edward's tongue, he's scared, Boris sees, and that means he must know enough. He almost lifts his hand, a thrill of danger drumming under his skin, not the kind that he enjoys, the one that grips at his heart and turns it sour, but Kolibri grabs his fingers.

Boris doesn't gasp, but his next breath is sharp and he feels himself pulsating with sudden and formidable excitement. Kolibri, fingers sure, takes more of his hand and lets it rest between them, their palms touching as Boris' heart, _the bitch_, echoes in his ears violently. They spend only a fleeting moment like this, fingers enlaced, before they separate quickly when someone coughs on their right. It's far away, there is no way that they've seen their hands, but it's enough, enough to make Boris' blood rush to the back of his neck.

For a few long minutes, they let their fingertips brush, never truly holding each other's hand again, but their skin keep grazing, it would look innocent, just indecisive movements in the dark, if it didn't keep happening, again and again until their fingers feel too warm and Boris' throat itches. He's not blushing, he doesn't do blushing, but he feels flushed, maybe his sweater is a bit too heavy for this weather. They spend the movie like this, their knuckles touching briefly, succinct and soft like the wings of a butterfly kissing their skin. It stops when Boris hears a noise, the unmistakable distressing sound of someone choking, on his right again but closer, much closer. He knows it's coming from Edward before he even turns his head, but for just a second, he thinks it's Kent. For just a second he's brought back to dry and scorching Vegas nights where powder lingered on his nostrils and Kent's drunk confessions turned to short anguished heaving.

When he does turn his head towards the sound, his instincts kicking him and telling him that he needs to hold Edward (Kent)'s hand, to remind him he's not alone, that he's fine and that he can breathe, he can, _just count to 1, 2, 3_. When he tries to reach for the boy, Krolic is already being taken care of, pale thin arms are wrapped around his head, hushed words are whispered in his ears and Boris can see, from where he is, how the light from Richard's glasses reflect in the boy's eyes, wide and terrified. Boris waits a little, he feels Kolibri start moving next to him, he's getting ready to leave, slipping his arms in the cardigan he had bought with him then hastily removed when they had entered the room. Edward's breathing isn't slowing down and Boris puts a hand on his brother's shoulder, reassuringly he hopes, to try to get some of his attention.

"Is not working, Richard." He says, low enough so that only his twin can hear, "We should go."

Richard nods absently, still whispering words, meaningless bullshit, just something to fill the silence around them and cut through the dread that Edward breathes in and out quickly, Boris can't hear anything but he's certain there's nothing calming about pasta dishes. They get up and Boris hears an annoyed sigh coming from the people around them, he would glare back, or smirk and maybe light a cigarette just to flick the ashes in their pools of melted butter popcorn. But he doesn't have the time and he doesn't even really want to either, not truly, he just wants to make sure Krolic can breathe properly.

They leave the cinema quickly, Richard has the trembling boy in his arms, which is probably something he'll complain about afterwards, but right now he's clinging to Boris' brother like he's the only refuge in a hurricane. His fingers are wrapped so tightly around Richard's wrist that his knuckles are turning white and look like they're about to break. Kolibri holds the doors and they walk for a moment, the sounds of their footsteps accompanied by Edward's shallow breaths and Richard' nervous rambling. They stop when Edward collapses on one of the park's bench, near the huge lumberjack statue that Boris has thought of spray painting before but got too lazy to do so. He also didn't know where kids in Derry got anything, he only had access to his two packs a day because Richard got his from Zirka and she likes him, lucky for him.

"Eddie," Kolibri says as he gets on eye -level with the other boy, Richard's arms blocking a part of Krolic's face but not enough that Boris doesn't see how red and wet his eyes are. "Eddie, you need to take deep breaths." 

Krolic seems to not hear the advice or to be unable to relax because his breathing gets even faster and Richard, hands shaking a little, has to grab the boy's face and stare him down. Boris has never seen his brother this intense before, he's never seen this worry in his eyes and he's slightly taken aback by how serious he is, how there isn't the hint of a nervous smile or an awkward laugh on his lips. He's closed off, eyes dark and for a split second, Boris sees something familiar in his face, not mimetism from the Toziers, he sees the cold structure of a Pavlikovsky. He's not sure how that makes him feel if he's being honest. But the spell is broken quickly, there might be coldness in Richard's traits, how he holds his head up and sets his jaw, but when his fingertips touch Krolic's face and the boy looks up, Richard's eyes go soft and there's no question in Boris' mind that this is what love looks like.

"Hey Spaghetti," Richard starts, his face getting closer and closer to the other boy's, so close that Boris doesn't know where Richard starts and Edward ends. "You've gotta breathe, man." The other boy huffs, one of his hands hits the back of Richard's head lightly, not enough to hurt, just to say shut up and Richard smiles a bit, it's not entirely relaxed yet, but Boris can see that his stress melting away with every deeper breath that Krolic takes.

"I have one of your inhalers in my pocket," Boris watches how Kolibri seems to tense on his right, he crosses his arms, his expression turning sour and Boris sees him open and close his mouth before he lets Richard continues, "You don't have to use it, but I have it." Richard's voice is on the verge of enamoured, Boris wonders for a second if it has always been like this between them, if his brother has always looked at this small boy and his two fanny packs with the same infatuation and if he has, does he think his friends haven't noticed? 

Krolic makes a muffled noise as a response and Boris doesn't understand but Richard seems to because he nods, his smile a little wider now, "Okay, Eds, no inhaler. We'll just do some of those breathing exercises Miss Shaperman showed you." He sits on his heels and Boris feels like this is something he shouldn't watch, this isn't for him or for anyone else. He takes a step back, turning around to observe the Lumberjack statue behind them and try to give his brother and Edward some privacy. Kolibri follows him, settling on his right with a low sigh. They don't speak for a moment. Derry is silent at this hour and the sun of August has warmed the air all day, the breeze that hits Boris' face is dry and hot and once again, he is brought back to Vegas and nights of repulsive heat where his only refuge was Kent's room, the sound of his agitated snores and the weight of the dog between them. He hates how unshakable all of this is, hates how he wishes he could breathe in the air at night without thinking of tentative secrets whispered behind two crushed pills and he hates how he doesn't want to forget at all, he hates that he carries Kent everywhere he goes but he would hate to lose him, more than he already has.

Kolibri doesn't speak next to him, he doesn't move, just stares at the statue and Boris hates that he can't find anything to say, the words mix on his tongue like cheap vodka and powdered vicodine, his sentences are wasteland pasty bullshit and he hates it, he _hates_ it. He wants to ask why Edward is like this but he guesses the answer would bring him back to Kent again and he doesn't want Kolibri to see that light in his eyes, he doesn't want this, none of this. He's suddenly tired, he feels wasted and yet he's sober. He could fix that, he has a bit of money left from Margaret has given him earlier, but he doesn't know where the fuck he could buy dope in this place and he thinks that the dollars would feel like sharp blades leaving his hands in exchange of a bottle of transparent poison. He used to not care, he used to live to get a reaction but now he's terrified of the probability of it being disappointment. 

"It's probably the guy's syringe," Kolibri says and his words pierce the fog of Boris' mind like a shot of adrenaline, he speaks and Boris is hit by a wave of something he can't name, but Kolibri is brave, braver than Boris could ever be and he would so much like to press his lips to the mole on his cheek.

"What about it?" Boris says, because he can't actually kiss this boy here, even if he aches for it. 

Kolibri nods towards Edward, whose breathing has gotten stabilized, "Eddie doesn't deal well with people and medicine, he doesn't like needles and blood, it's visceral." He doesn't offer more explanations but Boris doesn't think he needs any. He doesn't claim to understand all of it, but he can wrap his mind around the sound of rattling pill bottles that seem to follow Krolic everywhere, as well as the mark of pink lipstick on his cheek that he wipes down forcibly every time Boris sees him meet up with his friends. He doesn't know what happens behind closed doors, but he knows, he _knows_ that canes are not the only way to hurt a child in his own house.

A hand falls on his shoulder and he doesn't jump but it's a close thing, "Are you okay?" Kolibri asks, his voice low. Boris doesn't know what to answer, the words are still lost to him, he can feel them shape his lips, he can see them try to write themselves on his eyelids but it's blurry and it's a mess of English, Russian and Polish, it's French adjectives and Spanish exclamations. His head is too full of things that don't matter and his body feels empty of everything else, he wishes for the countenance that a cigarette would give him right now, he misses the sheer purple smoke and the smell of dirty tobacco, the thin paper staining his nails yellow. Kolibri's fingers find his and it's almost as warm as the ashes that would sometimes drop on his hands as he smoked in bed. He's definitely stealing one of Richard's packs tonight.

"I'm okay," Boris says, he tries to smile but he knows it must look crooked and grey, "We should go." He continues, turning back towards Richard to make sure the crisis has been averted, it looks so because Krolic is laughing now, cheeks as red as his eyes, "Is late."

Kolibri frowns, "It's not even midnight," His grasp on Boris' hand gets a little tighter but not to scare him, not to hurt, just to keep him there, so he doesn't run. "It's Summer, we can go to the Quarry, right Eddie?"

Edward looks up at the mention of his name and he gives a thumbs up that is matched by Richard, but Boris doesn't want to the Quarry, he wants to get one of Richard's cigarettes and steal his shiny walkman before he goes to smoke on the roof, he wants to get this sweater off and he wants to count how much money he has left in privacy. He feels suffocated by this town where nobody gives him a second of peace, he used to live in empty houses where no one cared what he did or how he was. This doesn't feel right, he doesn't want this, or maybe he does, but he _can't_. He tried to have this before, he tried to care for a boy and now he carries a bag around that weights more than the canvas it holds.

"We should go," Boris repeats, louder, and he can hear how thick his own accent sounds to the people around him. Richard jumps up, like he's been hit and his keys are already in his hands, his mouth is agape and there is an apology on his lips but Boris doesn't want to hear it, he has to leave, he needs to. His feet resonate as he steps away from the soft grass to walk on the asphalt, he picks up the pace and soon he's running, he's running down the road to find his brother's car and he's running from an another boy, but this one told him to stay while the one who moved to New York told him to follow him and maybe his is only painful ironies, maybe this is what he gets for wanting things and taking them. Margaret Tozier's dollars are heavy in his pocket, he thinks that if he tried to take them in his hands, they would burn him.

"Boris!" It's Richard, he knows, but he doesn't stop until he's resting his head on the side of the truck, the metal cold on his burning forehead. "Boris, what the fuck?"

He groans something, he can't even tell if it's English but Richard doesn't press, he just sighs and opens his door. "I told Eddie's mom I would bring home," He's not really speaking for Boris, but it's still a little unnerving, "She's gonna hate me, well, she already hates me, but now she's gonna _fucking_ hate me."

"I can walk," Boris spats out, head still pressed on the car door with abandon, "I don't need you."

Richard snorts but it's distant, "Don't be fucking stupid."

The ride back to the Toziers' house is insufferable, Boris can feel waves of curiosity and frustration coming out of his brother but he doesn't say anything, he just taps on his steering wheel and huffs loudly, as if Boris _cares_. He doesn't have to say anything, he doesn't have to explain himself, he doesn't owe Richard anything.

He huffs again.

Louder.

_Ebat' tse._

"What?" Boris barks, "Say what you want to say, am tired of your whining."

"Oh look!" Richard starts, sarcastically, "He speaks!" Boris tries to not groan but it's almost an automatic reaction, "Oh, I'm sorry, brother dearest, are you annoyed by my presence? I am after all just a humble driver, I can shut up and let you mope. Do you want me to put on some power ballad and throw water at you? It will look all very dramatic."

"I want to smoke," Boris replies, "And want quiet."

"You're fucking annoying."

"Me? Ever heard yourself?"

"It's pretty much the same as hearing you, right? Same voice and all? Except I don't slur my words like a drunk grandma after bingo night and I don't act like a douchebag."

"_Fuck you_," Boris says, in English, before he continues in Russian.

Richard aims to hit him in the jaw but he misses and hits the seat, "I can't understand shit, you asshat!"

"You're going to crash the car!" Boris yells, trying to hit his brother back and touching his shoulder, "You're going to kill us!"

Richard's fist connects with his side and Boris doubles over, the car takes a very narrow turn, "Maybe you'll fucking talk to me in the afterlife!" 

"You're crazy!"

"Takes one to know one, you Russian bitch!"

"Am Ukrainian!" Boris screams as the car parks and he can finally land a solid punch to his brother's face.

Richard's glasses don't break but Boris hears them crack a little and he's momentarily brought back to earlier this evening, when he tried to protect those same glasses and make his brother laugh. His thoughts die when Richard headbutts him, forcing him out of the car.

He's ready to jump on his brother and maybe aim for the nose this time when he catches a glimpse of movement on the porch of the house and he stops in his tracks, turning back to meet Bill Denbrough face to face, a look of anxious uncomprehension painting his face.

"Uh," He starts, his eyes going back and forth from one brother, a fat lip forming, to the other, an eye already a little red, as they stagger backwards and try to take some distance from each other. "Hi?"

"Bill?" Richard says, "What are you doing here?"

"I w-wanted to t-talk." The boy replies, clearly uncomfortable. It would almost make Boris laugh if he wasn't so tired, Bill Denbrough is just another obstacle before he can crash on his mattress and lit a cigarette.

"I told you I didn't wanna talk right now," Richard continues but Bill shakes his head.

"Not t-to you," He turns towards Boris, blue eyes set and he looks so determined, so sure of himself that Boris feels the joke he was preparing slip away from him, leaving him speechless as Bill Denbrough gestures towards the small bench near the Toziers' porch and implicitly tell him to follow. Richard doesn't say anything but Boris can see the surprise in his eyes as well as the unspoken law that Bill Denbrough is the leader of their group and, by proxy, of Boris' entourage as well. They sit on the bench, Richard observing them from afar, which is as frustrating as it is hilarious, this wasn't' what Boris had planned tonight.

"So,' Bill Denbrough starts, his stare digging in Boris' flesh, "I w-wanted t-to speak t-to you."

"I had gathered," Boris replies, he feels like biting at his knuckles. "Why?"

Bill Denbrough sighs and he seems older than Boris imagined him in his head when Richard or Edward talked about him in passing, older and tired. His eyes are vibrantly blue but there's a dark shroud behind them, something no longer sad, too used to be agonising, but it's sombre and drained. Boris wonders if his eyes looked the same when he arrived to Derry.

"What do you want from Stan?" Bill Denbrough says and it shouldn't confound Boris, it doesn't really, but it makes him want to laugh for a second, it makes him want to take a good hard look at the other boy's face and throw this sickening concern in his face. He's ready to leave, his fingers drumming on his thigh at the thought of nicotine soon brushing his lips but Bill Denbrough's stare turns icy before settling on something real, something that makes Boris stay just a little longer.

"I'm not t-trying to start shit." He says and Boris believes him, he does, it's in his eyes and in the way he holds his head high but doesn't look down, doesn't judge, he's scared, confused, Boris guesses that those are understandable when it comes to him. "I just w-wanna make s-sure you're n-not gonna hurt him," He frowns, as if he's bothered by his own stuttering, Boris doesn't care, he puts his head on his hand and waits. "That you reall-ly c-care." Bill Denbrough sighs again, louder, and his frustration colors his cheeks red, he's grimacing visibly now and his next words are hushed quickly, too quickly for his stutter to catch up with him. "He doesn't deserve to suffer, he's a good guy and he's my friend. If you don't actually like him, don't stay."

The last word falls between them like a rock in a lake, it makes a loud noise but it's quickly swallowed down, the surface stays still, the water stays a quiet stream and Boris, because he can't help himself, because he's tired, maybe just as tired as Bill Denbrough, Boris _laughs_. It's high, higher than he usually lets himself chuckle, it cracks in the Summer air and it breaks the seemingly peaceful silence of the street. It bleeds sun in the night, it bleeds Vegas warmth in the everlasting chilliness of Maine and it just bleeds of everything that Boris doesn't have to say, at least not to Bill Denbrough, not to Richard or anyone else than the boy who kissed him under July rain. He's not angry, maybe he should be, but he knows what he looks like, he knows what he is, what he represents for suburban American boys with their diluted disturbance. He knows what he looks like when he stands next to Kolibri and whispers names of birds, the Ukrainian sweet on his lips, in the crook of this boy's neck. He _knows_.

And maybe a year ago, he would have told Bill Denbrough to fuck off, or he'd have told him that he didn't want anything that Kolibri wasn't already giving him freely, that he would leave either way when he was done, but back then Derry was just a stop in his mind, Richard had no name, his friends all had the same faces, his own name was just Boris and Kolibri had been Stanley.

_Stanley_.

"I love him," Boris says, eyes locked on the moon that shines over him, he always thought her vision would hurt him but he was wrong. "I love him."

He can hear the gasps coming around him but he doesn't know who they belong to and he finds that he doesn't care, the moon is full, the sky holds no stars, the air is warm but it was never Vegas, it will never be Vegas again now he knows. He stands up, a newfound smile on his lips as he extends a hand towards his brother who is looking at him with something close to admiration.

"Keys," He asks, maybe more orders and Richard snorts.

"As if," He dangles them in front of his eyes, which would have gotten him punched if Boris wasn't too busy already planning something in his mind. "You can't drive."

"I have conviction."

"You'll get a _concussion_, nuance."

"Give the keys."

"No."

"Keys."

"No, want me to say it in Russian? _Nie_."

"That was Polish, give keys."

"Fuck you, no."

"_Give the keys, Richie_."

His brother's smile gets stuck on his face and Boris stops himself too, the realisation hitting him too. But he doesn't have time now, he'll think about it later, they don't have to make it a big deal, it's just a name. Just a name.

"Take m-my bike." Bill Denbrough says behind him, "St-tan's house isn't t-too far, you'll g-get there in n-no time."

Boris doesn't say thank you, doesn't question how he knows, why he knows, he grabs the bike, which is very big and a little heavy, and gets on it. Richard, Richie, is still looking at him but he guesses that he doesn't know what to say either. Good, maybe there's nothing to say, maybe it's already been said.

"Come back before morning," Richie finally murmurs, a shy smile growing on his face as Boris claps a hand on his back before taking a leap and leaving the two boys there, standing in front of the Tozier porch, the moon shining brightly over them, like a lighthouse on a dark ocean.

Bill Denbrough was right, Kolibri's house is close and Boris gets there under ten minutes, he disposes of the bike next to the house, trying to hide it in bushes in fear that someone will steal it, he thinks Bill Denbough wouldn't forgive that soon. When he's satisfied with the number of leaves and branches covering it, he tries to find Kolibri's window, which, by deduction, must be the one that faces the garden. He jumps over the fence and thinks of picking up rocks and throwing them, like he's seen in the movies, but he's not sure he's such a good shot and he also wants to keep the element of surprise. He thinks that if he climbed the tree on his right, he might be able to jump on the roof. Kolibri would disapprove of all of these methods if he knew, but he won't, this is kind of the whole point.

He gets to the window with all of his limbs still attached and only a small scratch on his knee, nothing that would dangerous, but he does cover it in case Kolibri forces him to disinfect it. He's not here for this, his purpose is clear in his mind.

He knocks twice and he sees movement behind the curtains, if it's actually the room of the Uris parents, he can still jump down and run, but he was right, he knew he was. His Kolibri opens the window, confusion as clear on his face as the tenderness that lives between his lips. Boris reaches for them instinctively, pressing a hand to the boy's cheek before letting it run down his neck, skin warm and lips warmer.

"What are you doing here?" Kolibri asks when they separate, his cheeks flushed and his curls already falling on his eyes. 

"Needed to see you," Boris kisses him again, quicker this time, just enough time to lick the corner of his mouth and still taste the popcorn's sugar. "Needed to say something."

Kolibri wraps his arms around his shoulders, pressing their bodies closer and Boris momentarily forgets what he came here for, he's losing himself in the softness of the boy's skin and the delicate scent of lavender that emanates from his hair. He has to put distance between them, he forces himself to buy turning towards the abandoned walkman and book on Kolibri's bed, picking them both up and taking a step back.

"Homer _and_," He puts one of the headphones on and smiles," Patti Smith, strange combination, Kolibri." He chuckles a little, "_The night belongs to lovers,_ eh?"

"I don't judge when you read Marx and blast songs no one has ever heard of," He grabs the book and puts his bookmark back, "I was reminiscing."

"I had guessed, but I don't remember listening to Patti Smith back then."

"I don't have to explain all of my nostalgic feelings to you," He takes the walkman back too and pauses it, the muffled sound stopping, "Especially when you left me in the park earlier tonight and then just decided to appear at my window.

Boris blinks, "Had to see you."

"You said that already and it explains absolutely nothing."

"I," He waits, unable to find the words now that he wants to say them, that he can say them. "I had to see you. Tonight was bad, I didn't want it to be like that." He thinks back on Krolic's trembling hands and how his own had shaken as well. Maybe he hadn't been as okay as he thought he had been, in retrospect. "I remembered things. Doesn't matter but it hurt."

Kolibri frowns, "Do you want to talk about it? What hurt you?"

"No," Boris whispers as he takes a step forward and takes the other boy's hand in his own, feeling his heart start beating faster. "No, I don't, is not why I am here." He interlaces their fingers and lets himself trace circles on Kolibri's palm.

"Why are you here?" Kolibri asks, voice a little raspy, his cheeks are red again and Boris cradles one because he can, because they're alone and yes, maybe the night belongs to lovers and lovers can kiss and say those things without relying on chemical confidence.

"Needed to see you," He repeats as Kolibri's breath gets quicker, warmer, closer and it's all he knows right now, all he cares about. This isn't Vegas, it never will be but maybe that's okay, maybe this doesn't have to be as heavy as the painting that he hides in his closet like his brother hides an inhaler in his pockets. "Needed to see you, Kolibri."

He never asks why because Boris kisses him and then he says it. He says it in English first, then in Ukrainian, then maybe in English again before he loses tracks and it all sounds the same to his ears, it's different words but it's the same feeling.

He translates it with kisses.

Kolibri, who is not Theo, who could never be Theo but who is good too and who knows things, who understands and listens. Kolibri, he says it back, he replies and he does it until morning.

When the sun rises, Boris sees Derry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so so sorry this took so long, i hope this isn't disappointing and that (for the few people who read this) was satisfying and in character. i edited a lot because i wanted my boris voice to be more accurate now that i'm more used to this slavic bitch.
> 
> as always, please leave a kudo/comment if you enjoyed it <3
> 
> (special mention to dani and cat, ily)

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to leave a kudo and a comment! and find me on [the storis archives](https://sputnikolibri.tumblr.com) for more stan/boris content!


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